


Excellency

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Also there is a brief insinuation that someone ate a dog (spoilers: they did), Gen, George Washington might have been infertile so he never actually had biological children fun fact, I took a lot of liberties with historical accuracy, This is not a happy fic even though the summary kind of makes it sound like one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton doesn't want a father, and George Washington didn't even know he wanted a son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excellency

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://hamiltonprompts.tumblr.com/post/133795570211/angstfic-in-which-washington-really-began-to-see) prompt from [hamiltonprompts](http://hamiltonprompts.tumblr.com). Otherwise titled 'George Washington's Paternal Crisis'.
> 
> A couple things: Hamilton was probably actually around 22 in 1777, but Washington would most likely have believed him to be younger since Hamilton began telling people he was fifteen when he arrived in America in 1772. Also, though the battle of Monmouth happened in 1778 and the Laurens/Lee duel happened in late 1778 or early 1779, I chose to set the story in 1777 at Valley Forge for ~emotional resonance~. And Lin-Manuel Miranda messes with the timeline all the time anyway so I figure no one will mind.
> 
> (Also the battle of Yorktown was in 1781 and Philip was born in 1782 but you know what the musical timeline is so out of sync I don’t even care at this point.)

“Call me son _one more time--_ “

There is an uncomfortable silence. Outside, people are still shouting. John Laurens laughs at something-- a compliment on his shooting, perhaps.

George sighs.

“Go home, Alexander. That’s an order.” Hamilton does not move. Stares him down. “From your commander.”

“Sir--“

 _“Go home._ ”

Alexander storms out of the tent. Briefly, George thinks to call after him and tell him to dress warmer. He doesn’t.

Alex Hamilton is frustrating, stubborn, and reckless, and he’s going to get himself killed and George will stand by and watch him do it.

Horrifyingly, he feels frustrated tears prick at his eyes and swipes them away. Now is not the time. He is a general; his men look up to him. What would they think if one of them walked in on him crying like the weak-willed fool Lee proclaims him to be?

But if not now, when? It’s cold, his men are unhappy, and they are losing. The other day he heard the yips of that little dog that follows Decker around silenced by a pistol shot, and he didn’t even have the heart to yell at the men for wasting bullets.

And he just sent Alex Hamilton home.

It’s for the best, he tells himself. The boy’s wife is expecting, and there’s nothing Alexander can do that Laurens can’t. (That’s a lie, of course; there seems to be nothing in this world that Alexander can’t do, and do better and faster than anyone else.) They don’t need two people to beg congress for supplies.

His breaths are coming slightly ragged, and he hates himself for it. He cares about all of his men equally. One upstart (brilliant, talented, incredible) child should not mean this much to him, and yet his heart clenches just a little every time Alexander refuses to call him anything but ‘Your Excellency’. He thought the resistance to his attempts at a closer relationship merely the product of worrying on Alexander’s part that he would not be taken seriously or that the legitimacy of his position would be called into question, but his outburst moments ago has cast things in a new light.

He’d only meant to be friendly, and yes, maybe a little paternal, but Alexander reacted so violently that it makes him wonder. He’d never considered it fatherly, really. Yes, the boys under his command-- and they are boys; Hamilton himself is barely twenty-- inspire a protectiveness in him, but that’s natural. They’re just children, and they have no one to look after them except for him. And yet Alex Hamilton--

Alex Hamilton. The boy is mad. He never stops, and George often feels left behind by his bullet-quick words and ideas, but there is a genius in him, and George wants to nurture it. He wants, more than anything, for Alexander to survive this war and go on to do all the things George knows he can do. Alexander already speaks of financial systems and governmental oversight, things George would never have considered but once he hears them understands as essential.

Alexander is brilliant, but he is hurting. His recklessness borders on suicidal, and George wants nothing more than to gather him close and keep him safe from the fighting. He asks for command almost daily, and it breaks George’s heart to see Alexander’s face close off just that little bit more every time George tells him no.

George’s breath catches on what can’t be a sob; it can’t be. Alexander Hamilton is a brilliant madman, but he is a man. He is his own man, and he doesn’t want George’s pathetic attempts at surrogate parenting--

He hadn’t realized. It seems obvious now, but for whatever reason he hadn’t realized.

Well, it doesn’t matter. Alexander doesn’t want a father, and George has gone almost a full year without realizing his feelings toward Alexander tended that way. It will be easy enough to forget the fact.

Rationalizing is all well and good, but the mind and the heart have very different wants at the best of times. George’s eyes are watering again. He has the mad thought that maybe the tears will freeze on his face.

This deep into winter, the daylight is fading fast even though it’s barely past four o’clock, and the dim light inside the tent isn’t helping George’s mood. Perhaps he should go for a walk and catch the sunset? No, that would be foolish. Better to lose control of himself in here, where no one can see, than out in the woods where a soldier relieving himself might stumble across his breakdown.

Another sob catches in his throat. His eyes are swimming with what are now undeniably tears. Even in this horrendous winter, Alexander was a ray of light, unflagging hope and promise, eyes towards the future. Even George sometimes believes that they won’t make it through this, but Alexander never loses hope. Without him here, even just for the half hour he’s been gone, already George can feel despondence sinking in.

He sniffs. The tears are coming on fast now, and his breath is hitching on sobs he can’t let anyone hear. Some traitorous part of his brain, a part he hadn’t even known was there, hoped that Alexander saw him as a father figure, hoped that Alexander’s unborn child would be almost like a grandchild. It was silly, and it’s never coming true now.

George closes his eyes, shaking with the force of his suppressed tears. They are going to die here in this valley, and Alexander hates him, and the last words they will ever exchange will have been angry.

“General Washington? Sir?”

George straightens from where he wasn’t even aware he had slumped in his seat, swiping hastily at his cheeks. With any luck the low light will hide the remaining evidence of his weakness. “Yes?”

John Laurens ducks into the tent, face tense with concern. “Sir, I saw Alexander Hamilton leaving your tent looking very distressed. I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” He pauses. “It was my fault, sir. I wanted to keep going, but Alexander talked me out of it.”

“Everything is fine, Laurens. You’re not in trouble. Thank you for asking.” George’s voice is mostly steady, which he counts as a tiny victory. At least he can say he’s had one victory in this godawful war, even if it’s just not crying in front of his aide. “Hamilton is headed home to New York.”

“He’s what?” Laurens looks even more concerned. “Has something happened?”

“No, nothing’s happened,” George reassures him. “His wife is expecting. I sent him home to see his son.”

“Oh.” Oddly, that doesn’t elicit the joyful response George would have expected from someone as close to Alexander as Laurens seems to be. He looks almost resigned. “I’ll be sure to give him my congratulations.”

“Wait until he’s reached home,” George says, knowing that if he doesn’t Laurens will rush to catch Alexander on the way out. “If he thinks I sent him away for that reason he’ll never leave.”

Laurens’ voice goes frosty as the air outside. “He doesn’t need you to protect him.”

No, he doesn’t, and that’s the problem. George shrugs, as nonchalant as possible. “He would never go on his own. I gave him an excuse.”

Laurens eyes him strangely, but he seems satisfied. He pauses halfway out the door and says, voice low like he’s confessing a secret, “he’ll be safe, though?”

“I have done everything in my power.”

“Thank you.”

Laurens exits, and George is faced with a choice. He can stay here and wallow until the light is completely gone and he’s crying by lanternlight, or he can pull himself together and visit his men. Morale is low and a strong commanding presence is essential.

He stands up and pulls on his coat. His men need him. They have a war to win, and Hamilton has a son to raise, and John Laurens is a capable man. They will get through this. He will get through this.

And so will Alexander Hamilton. If George ever has children of his own, that is all he would want for them.

**Author's Note:**

> IRL Washington and Hamilton didn't really get along even though Washington tried to connect with Hamilton; Hamilton insisted on calling him 'Your Excellency' for most of their acquaintanceship and resigned from his treasury post because, as he said, he just didn't really like Washington. Poor Washington was just trying his best.


End file.
